Hi!

Here's another chapter, I hope you'll enjoy it.

- I do not own the Lord of the Rings, or its characters or places. I only created Mÿne.


Her mind weighed heavily on her. Faramir's words would not leave her mind as she walked around the city, the last image of him riding towards the dark horizon, to a pale city that was doomed to be lost. No effort could save it now, not even Faramir and his men, as brave and foolish as they were.

She picked a purple colored flower from the stones in the streets. It had been flattened against it, and lost some of its petals as Mÿne held it up. The people of Minas Tirith had treated Faramir's departure as a funeral, and only now she could see why.

She released the flower and let it fall to the ground, against the white and grey stones that made Minas Tirith as it was. Her eyes set themselves on her surroundings. Women and children were staying together in huddled groups, seemingly trying to gather as much as food and supplies as they could get at the moment. Soldiers, guards and bowmen walked past her, brusquely, dark expressions on their face.

She could sense it. It was the same feeling when she prepared at Helm's Deep, that nervous, nauseous feeling. As her eyes traveled to the dark clouds in the distance, she could sense that it wouldn't be long before their battle would start. The battle against Mordor, the battle for Minas Tirith.

Her hands gripped themselves around the white stone that lined the streets, looking out on the Field of Pelennor. This was where their stand would be. They would either die in the White City, or survive to live another day, another fight…

Mÿne wondered if it ever ended, as she made her way up to the upper level. Soldiers hurried past her, to the lower levels, trying to ready everything they could, now that they had the time. Rocks were stacked next to the trebuchets, fires kept ablaze, arrows sorted. They seemed anxious, but not as scared as the people from Rohan had, though Mÿne had to admit that it had been hardly an army at Helm's Deep. Merely boys and old men, the brave warriors and horsemen either already dead or banished.

As she set her foot on the upper level, Gandalf looked over the plains before Gondor as well. A deep and grave expression was on his face.

"Can you see something?" she asked him, as she took up a position next to him.

"The enemy is moving..." he said cryptically.

Mÿne felt silent for a moment as she put her gloved hands on the stone wall in front of her. The last beams of the sun wove themselves in her hair as she sighed. She had been trying to catch a glimpse of Osgiliath, but it was nothing more than a needle's end to her, too far away to see anything that might've told her about its situation.

"...And Faramir?" she asked eventually, "Do you think he'll succeed?"

Despite the insults and blame he'd thrown at her before, Mÿne still wanted to believe that Faramir was still out there because he believed in his cause, even though no one else would. She longed to believe that he wasn't doing this on behalf of a madman's whim. She hoped so.

But as much as she wanted to ask Gandalf about him, he remained silent, leaning on his staff as his eyes looked at something she could obvious not see. Wizards…

So she retreated herself to her quarters, silently.


The armor Faramir had gifted her with was strong and fantastically made, but it weighed heavily on her body and mind. For some reason she couldn't look at herself in the mirror anymore without being reminded of his words, that stung painfully in her ears.

"Last of this house..." she repeated as her hands slipped over the armor.

She wondered if she was really to blame for Faramir's death. After all, he had made the decision to recapture Osgiliath himself, though she suspected his father had a lot to do with that as well. Boromir's shadow, Gandalf had called it. Had it been like that all his life, remaining in people's shadows that grew up to strong and important?

Another thought popped up in Mÿne's mind as she sat down on her bed. Would she have been able to save him, by telling him she loved him, even if she didn't? She'd been living a lie for the rest of her life if he took that as a reason not to carry out his father's orders. It would make him a deserter, but living, she supposed.

Had she really been able to save him? Did he blame her for Boromir's death after all? He'd left her with so many questions, she didn't know what to believe anymore. She'd liked Faramir, as a friend, but those words had felt like a knife in her back. After all this time, all she'd done to be at peace, he'd ripped open that wound in a flash, like Boromir had died yesterday, not a year before.

Of course, she wasn't the only one suffering from his death, but she had gotten the feeling that Faramir had sort of forgiven her, when they'd spoken about it. Had he truly, or had it been a lie?

Mÿne couldn't tell anymore. The only thing she knew was that Faramir's words were becoming quite the nuisance in her head, and Boromir's image kept on swimming in front of her eyes, reminding her of her constant failures.


The room was suffocating her. Her mind would not leave her alone and kept on playing the last couple of hours before her eyes, again and again. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore and stood from the bed which she'd been resting on.

Her boots stomped through the hallway as she made her way towards the courtyard. The fresh air greeted her happily, helped her to focus again. Breathing it in eagerly, she reminded herself what was to come. Pippin had been right, waiting on a battle that was to come was the worst. She felt like hurling but didn't actually had the heart to do it. Besides that, she doubted it would help.

The courtyard of stone was deserted, save for the guards with white feathers on their helmets. They still guarded the White Tree, despite everything that was going on. Mÿne thought it odd. After all, they could use every man, every soldier available. Why guard a tree that would soon be cut and burned? Their efforts to guard it seemed wasted on her, until she was about to walk past it.

Something about the tree caught her eye. It was a small thing, a tiny detail she would've missed if she'd looked the other way. There was a small flower bud on the tree. It was as big as the top of her index finger, but it was there all the same.

"It's going to bloom." she breathed as she walked up to it and looked at the flower bud, "Aragorn..."

Even if the guards heard her, they gave no reaction. They kept their stand and crossed their lance-like spears when she came too close to the tree.

In her heart, she could feel a sudden feeling. Like it weighed a bit less. She'd seen the flower bud now, she knew that Aragorn would come. He would ride with Théoden to Gondor, answering their call. She would meet him on the battlefield, proud.

Running down the steps towards the level below, she figured the best thing to do was to help prepare the men for battle, whenever it came.

"Bring the rocks, fetch the arrows!" one of the soldiers barked as he ran between the many trebuchets that perched proudly on Minas Tirith's walls.

Mÿne offered her help at least twice, but it seemed the soldiers didn't take kindly to her help. They were busy, and Mÿne could tell.

"It is unwise to keep soldiers from their task, my dear." Gandalf told her as he approached her on the stairs.

"Come, we might have some use yet." he told her as he lead her to the even lower levels.

Being in the company of Mithrandir, as the Gondorians called him, helped. They respected him and looked to him for aid and advice. He helped thickening their defenses at the walls, told them when to light their arrows and informed them about what to expect, though even he could not be certain what Sauron would send their way.

At some point, she found herself sitting on a bench of a local inn, smoking and drinking a mug of ale.

"For the nerves." Gandalf had assured her as he handed her her mug.

Mÿne had accepted, though halfheartedly. She didn't think she had the stomach for it right now. In fact, she was scared she would throw up right immediately after the first sip, but after some powerful reassurance from Gandalf, she finally put the silver cup against her lips.

"I've instructed the Steward's current councilman to evacuate the city." Gandalf mused from his pipe, "They are leading the women and children out of this city as we speak, through a small mountain pass. They will be slow, and there will be no soldiers to guide them, but it will have to do."

"Denethor agreed with your plan?" she asked him, obviously surprised as she took another sip of ale.

"The Stewart does not even know. He has been locked up in his hall since this morning, or so I'm told. I doubt he has eyes for the city and her needs at this moment..." Gandalf said, shaking his head lightly, "He will come to his senses, eventually."

"But will it be on time?" Mÿne asked, though she knew the answer as the dark clouds passed Osgiliath in the distance.

As their darkness covered the river town, made of white stone as Minas Tirith, Mÿne's heart sank. Faramir hadn't made it. Even after her mind played its own games with her, she still treasured a small spark of hope. Aragorn had returned from a seemingly death, she figured Faramir could too. But that spark was soon quenched as she watched the dark clouds roll over the landscape before her.

"...Drink up, my dear. It will soon be time." she heard Gandalf's voice tell her in the same ominous way that her mind told her the same, "We best be prepared when they come."


And soon enough, Mÿne didn't think even half a day had passed, she heard sounds outside in the city as she walked. At first it was a stifled cry or two, then some guards shouting, before people ran to the edge of the city, the part that looked out on the Pelennor Fields. More and more gathered and so, Mÿne soon pushed her way through until she was at the wall.

Her eyes widened as she looked at the display before her. On the Fields, in the distance, something was moving. It was a long line that spread over almost the entire width of the Field. But soon she caught sight of yet another line behind the first one, and one after that. Large things emerged from the distance, made of iron. Towers, pulled along by trolls and creatures she had not yet encountered in her life. A shiver went up her spine as she took in the size of this army.

She'd heard stories from Aragorn about his battles, small and big, but she believed that this was the largest army there had ever been since the Battle on Mount Doom, literally ages ago. It made Saruman's army at Helm's Deep seem like a laughing matter.

"They are here." she breathed.

Women and children started to cry and Mÿne tried to lead them away from the wall, now that they had gazed upon their doom. She asked the mothers, aunts and sisters to take their children and either make for the mountain pass, or remain in their homes if they did not want to leave their men and city. After all, she'd learned that Gondorian women were proud.

Cries from the army behind her echoed against the stone walls, amplifying them heavily. She didn't even had to look at the army to know that they had come here to destroy everything. Not just kill every last man, woman or child, but to complete eradicate Minas Tirith, the White City of Númenor, like it had never existed. Sauron had indeed send all troops and they were was breathtakingly fearsome.

"Make way! Clear the path!" she heard behind her, and people obliged, clearing themselves from the streets that lead to the upper level.

"Quick, hurry! Take him to the Steward!" she heard another soldier cry.

Her curiosity woken, Mÿne pushed through the people, who seemed to weep even more all of a sudden, before she froze in her steps and gazed upon the body the soldiers carried up the stairs. She would recognize those reddish curls anywhere, even without them caked in blood. Her breath remained stuck in her throat before her feet jumped to life and she ran after the column of soldiers. A form of relieve had washed over her, though it made soon room for another form of worry and sadness.

"My lord Faramir!" she yelled as she tried to catch up with the marching soldiers, clad in silver and blue, "Is he alive?" she tried to inquire.

But no answer came. The soldiers were focused on their one task: to get Faramir's injured body up the steps and towards the Citadel.

At the courtyard, the doors of the Tower of the Steward had opened with a quick motion, and Denethor stormed out, wailing loudly. His robe flapped behind him as he ran. Behind him, Pippin followed in tow, though he could not keep up with his short legs.

"Faramir! Say not that he has fallen!"

Mÿne watched as Denethor, high and mighty as he had presented himself before, fell to his knees and stroke his son's face with care. She found it wondrous how this man had turned, like a leaf in the wind.

"They were outnumbered." one of the guards said, with grave concern on his face, as he informed Denethor of his son's situation, "None survived."

Mÿne thought of Beregond, who she had gotten to know days before. He too had left with Faramir. If none had survived, she supposed he had fallen in battle as well. Her face turned sorrowful as she thought about him. She had thought him nice and caring. Serious, but in a good way. He and Faramir had brought the ultimate sacrifice to protect their city.

Only now did Denethor see to realize just what he had send out Faramir for. He rose from his position and stumbled, mumbling to himself. As soon as he removed himself from Faramir's side, Mÿne and Pippin approached.

"My line has ended… The house of Stewards has failed..." Denethor wailed as he stepped further and further away from Faramir.

"The true Unsung Hero of Minas Tirith..." Mÿne said sadly as she gazed at Faramir's pale face. It broke her to see him like this, even after all that had happened and the insults he had thrown at her. In the end, he still remained her friend.

"He's alive..." Pippin said, bend to his knees and cupping Faramir's face.

"What did you say?!" Mÿne breathed, as her eyes widened.

"He's alive!" Pippin repeated, almost as shocked as she was, before he turned to Denethor, "He needs medicine, milord!"

But Denethor did not hear him. He had only eyes for what laid beyond his walls. The Great Army of Mordor, ready for battle. Even from this distance Mÿne could hear their war cries. She did not even need to look at the army to know that it would outnumber them greatly. If they entered the gate, it would be over.

Denethor seemed to have made the same conclusion. He grabbed onto the parapets and his shoulders slumped. There was no response from him. For a moment nothing could be heard besides orc cries and the banging of thousands and thousands of spears.

A sudden crash and a tremble through the ground made Mÿne shudder at her place. From the lower levels she could hear panicked cries and the rumble of stone on stone.

"They have started…" Mÿne breathed as she put her hand on Pippin's shoulder.

He looked at her, eyes big. His mouth hung open for a bit, no doubt questions ready to be asked, but no sound would come out. Mÿne gulped as she gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Milord-" Pippin tried again as he called out to Denethor, but he would still not answer.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Gandalf, emerging from their building. His expression was dark and concerned at the same time. He did not seem to lose Denethor's movement from his gaze, but still put his hand on Mÿne's head as he approached them.

"Take him to the House of Healing." Gandalf instructed the guards, who seemed to nod immediately and got to action. They lifted the stretcher with Faramir and quickly marched to a door Mÿne had not seen yet, or at least shown no interest in before.

"Will he be alright? Will he make it?" she asked Gandalf anxiously as she watched the doors close behind the column of guards.

"I can not say, my dear. We have bigger fears to face right now. Sauron has made his move, stones are being fired at the city. Denethor must give orders..." he said, and worry lined his voice as he stared at Denethor.

In the background she could hear more screams and rumble. Mordor was pressing its attack and they were waiting for the orders of a grieving Steward. A Steward that stood at the parapets and gazed upon his enemy… and did nothing.

"Gandalf?" Pippin asked as he looked at the wizard in concern.

Suddenly Denethor's voice boomed from his throat. Normally Mÿne would not have believed it would reach all of Minas Tirith, but after hearing what war cries did against walls of stone, she was sure his words were carried throughout the city easily.

"Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for your lives!" the Steward called.

Mÿne looked at Denethor in disbelieve. The army of Mordor was here, attacking and he gave up already? He would rather let his city fall into the hands of the enemy than to stand down and defend it? These were no orders of a Steward, they were orders of a madman.

It was at that moment that Gandalf nearly ran to Denethor and smacked his staff in his face. Denethor went to the ground and Gandalf took over command. Mÿne sighed relieved before she grew serious again. Without men to lead them, without a true Captain or leader, what would they do? What would become of them?

Gandalf seemed to answer that question for her, as he let his heavy yet clear voice spread over the parapets and the roofs of the city.

"Prepare for battle!"


The city was in turmoil. People were screaming and running aimlessly. Mothers clutched their babes to their chest as they cried, soldiers lost before Gandalf put them back at their posts. Rock and stone were thrown all across the streets. She even caught a glimpse or two at severed heads, that laid strewn across. With horrified expressions they stared up at the sky or ground, nothingness in their open eyes. They wore the same helmets as the riders that had went with Faramir… And so Mÿne did not need to wonder just what had become of them. She felt sick as she passed the collapsed houses, more bodies under the stone, yet it was expected of Sauron: Mordor did not play fair.

Since Pippin belonged to the Citadel, as being one of its guards, Mÿne had felt lost for a moment. He had gathered with the rest of the guards inside the Hall of the Stewards, as was expected of him. She did not belong to any faction and Gandalf had taken off quickly. As he rode Shadowfax through the city, she could clearly hear Gandalf's commands to the men. He called them to arms, rallied them together and gave orders, like a true leader in need. She could not keep up. He had taken his horse faster than she could sigh and so, when she arrived at the parapets of the lower levels, he had already taken up his position among the men.

Now that she was up close, she could really gaze upon Mordor's army and its true strength. Lines and lines and lines with foul creatures filled the Fields of Pelennor, as far as her eyes could see. They brought trolls, in all different shapes and sizes, towers made of red iron and catapults that fired rocks at the city. They made towers collapse and walls tremble under their impact.

She reached for the bow on her back and stepped up on the white parapets, among the Gondorian archers. Arrow after arrow she launched into the army, trying to thin the ranks. Unlike the battle of Helm's Deep, she found this one a bit trickier to keep track of. Helm's Deep had been relatively small compared to the White City.

Towers emerged from among the ranks. Slowly yet certainly, they rolled towards the walls of Minas Tirith, obviously trying to gain access to the parapets and start ahead, before the army would march down the main gate.

On a higher level, rocks flung from the orc army, into a white tower, that soon collapsed into a pile of rubble and death. Mÿne gulped as she realized that even she could end up like that if she wasn't careful.

"Aim for the trolls! Kill the trolls!" Gandalf ordered as he walked back and forth behind them.

Mÿne focused her attention back to the incoming towers. Together with the Gondorian archers, she aimed her arrows at the trolls, who pushed the towers forward. She could not let them close to the wall. If the orcs entered, Minas Tirith would lose all its advantage.

Letting her arrows fly, with the rest of the Men, she watched as they hit the trolls well enough to stop them, but the towers were close enough for the orcs to board the parapets. One got destroyed by a trebuchet, hit with white stone in its center. Not much was left of it and it had stopped in the middle of its tracks. However, that was not the case for most of them. With a metallic clunk the nearest tower let its iron hatch fall upon the parapets, to release hordes of orcs, armed to their teeth.

"Swords!" Mÿne called as she stepped back from the parapets and unsheathed her sword, to join Gandalf into the frenzy.

Some followed her, to defend the roads that lead into the city, some stayed on the parapets, trying to stop more incoming towers. They soon fell prey to the rushing orcs as more and more hatches dug themselves into the stone parapets.

Mÿne rammed her sword into the nearest orc, slinging him to the side before she hew down the next one, before she caught sight of a small curly-haired hobbit.

"Pippin, get out of here! Get out!" she called as she quickly moved forward.

Jumping down from a low wall, she planted her foot down on a running orc, looking to kill Pippin, and send him flying into a near wall. Quickly she ended him before she had to turn sideways, to avoid a nasty looking dagger that had been thrown in her direction. She grabbed Pippin and dragged him to the side.

"You cannot be here, Pip!" she said to him, as his eyes were wide and shocked.

His voice was as amazed as his gaze.

"They called us out to fight..." he breathed, though she was not sure if he was talking to her directly, or just to himself.

Despite what they had seen at Moria, at Amon Hen, she was reminded of the fact that Pippin probably had not been in a battle before. Just like herself before Helm's Deep.

A sudden high pitched scream made Mÿne cry out painfully, as did Pippin. It was so high and painful, she slumped against the wall and pressed her hands against her ears. Pippin threw off the helmet he wore as he stumbled to the side, screaming.

She trembled on her legs as she dared to look above them. Nazgûl on Fell Beasts.

Her heart sunk with an alarming rate. The Nazgûl and their Beasts did as they pleased with the Men of Gondor. They played with them like a cat did with a mouse before he killed it. The Beasts talons raked across the walls of Minas Tirith, drastically thinning out their forces, screaming as they did so.

Mÿne backed away quickly as something fell from above, and horror-struck she looked at the remains of a half-eaten soldier. He had been torn and thrown to the depths. What a horrible way to die…

The painful high pitched screams became louder, as did the sound of rushing winds, and Mÿne looked up to see a nearing Wraith and Beast. It had spread its talons, ready to grab anything that was in its way. Unfortunately, Pippin and her were a part of that as well.

Quickly she bit through the pain of the Nazgûl's scream and grabbed Pippin by his arm, yanking him along with her as she ran. The poor hobbit could not keep up but allowed her to drag him. With a swift motion, she rounded a nearing corner, the sensation of wings making wind rushing past her as the talons of the Fell Beast grabbed unfortunate soldiers and took off with them.

Panting heavily, Mÿne pressed herself against the wall, a moment of realization hitting her. That had been too close. This battlefield was a living trap. They were never going to make it. Now that Mordor had send out the Nazgûl on wings, as Gandalf half had foretold, she was not certain anymore what their chances were.

"Peregrin Took, Simbelmÿne!" Gandalf called as he rounded the corner as well, an expression of relieve washing over his face as he gazed upon them.

"I had thought you dead." he admitted, worriedly.

"We are very much still alive." Mÿne answered as she pushed Pippin forward, towards Gandalf and gripped her sword tighter. "Yet for how long? Gandalf… you cannot think we can best this army. This force of pure hatred, in these numbers…"

She stopped her own sentence to hack her sword into a nearing orc. He growled angrily before sinking to the ground. More came as she retrieved her sword. She swung it at the one that ran the hardest, jumping before Gandalf and Pippin. Metal clung against metal as they dueled: hacking, swinging, dodging and blocking. At one point Mÿne duck low and slashed her sword against the orc's legs and he fell down onto the stone. With swift motion she let her sword come down on its skull and with a sickening sound it cracked, ending the orc's life.

Men screamed around them, soldiers were strewn across the city by Fell Beasts, orcs were fighting their way through their forces and had already started on making their way into the city itself. Wooden beams fell down, onto their level, as a trebuchet from above was smashed to smithereens by a Fell Beast.

Another tower latched itself onto Minas Tirith and from its maw a new gulf of orcs emerged. They ran at them, growling, howling and dangerously swinging their swords. Gandalf and Mÿne sprang to action immediately, almost back to back as they hew, slashed and smacked their swords against the foul creatures. Mÿne grabbed a nearest orc's helmet by its horn and send him straight stumbling into another one before she drove her sword through them. If anything, the battle of Helm's Deep had taught her how to really fight.

Gandalf detached his sword from an orc's abdomen and pulled his staff with him as he turned to Pippin, just as he killed an orc behind him, that miraculously Gandalf and Mÿne had missed and slipped past their attention. Pippin retracted his sword and looked at the dark blood that stained it.

"Guard of the citadel indeed." Gandalf said, and Mÿne could see a bit of pride on his face.

"Now, back up the Hill. Quickly!" Gandalf said as he send Pippin back to the Citadel. Pippin looked at him, horror on his face for a moment, like he had wondered what he had done, before he nodded eagerly and disappeared in the back alleys he had pointed out to them not too long ago.

Gandalf and Mÿne rushed into battle on the walls and parapets after that, trying to hold back the forces of Evil, but deep in her heart Mÿne felt that it was folly. They were only stalling what would be inevitable. Minas Tirith would be overrun. It would not be a matter of weeks, it would be a matter of days. If Rohan hadn't answer their call, it would be over.

"Gandalf! We cannot hope to keep this level. They are simply with too many!" Mÿne called as she panted.

She pushed her sword forward, against an orc and swung it to the side, spraying black liquid over the ground as she did so. Her next strike was at an exceptionally ugly orc, who sidestepped and clashed blades with her. Twirling to the side, she drove the fist of her unoccupied hand into his face, sending him flying over the parapets, into the mass below. The mass that moved against the gate, carrying something between them.

"A battering ram!" Mÿne called to Gandalf, "They will soon breach the gate!"

She grabbed the bow from her back again and signaled some archers to help her. Seven rushed over her and took up position as they started to fire arrows rapidly at the orcs handling the battering ram. One by one they fell, leaving the battering ram on the field, before a new group of orcs picked it up and continued.

Gandalf tossed the orc on his right side into another one and struck them down with a combination of his staff and sword.

"Do not worry! Not with five battering rams could you take down that gate!" he answered before he saved two soldiers from being captured by a Fell Beast with a stream of light from his staff.

"But that might..." she gulped as she saw something nearing in the far distance, accompanied by war cries.

"Grond! Grond! Grond!"

It was an enormous wolf's head, made of iron and steel, hung in chains between great wooden beams. It was the greatest battering ram she'd ever seen, almost as high as the walls of Minas Tirith themselves. From its steel mouth, flames were burning, ready to take down wood as soon as it would touch it.

Next to her Gandalf stood, his hand on the parapet as he too gazed at the construction called Grond. His expression spelled worry and as Mÿne looked from him to Grond, she knew that this would change everything. Every advantage they had so far, it would be wiped out if they managed to breach the gate.

"I will go to the gate, rally the men. Mÿne, get to the next level. Instruct the catapults, all of them! Tell them to take out that construction!" Gandalf said as he turned around and joined the soldiers fighting the tower-orcs, "The gate must hold!"

Mÿne took that as a sign to get herself to the higher levels. She ran towards the back alley Pippin had used earlier on, and stomped up the small set of stairs.

The alley twisted and turned many times. If one would ask what way North would be, Mÿne was certain she could not give a truthful answer. One moment she felt like she was going in the right direction, the next she felt like she was being send back.

"To the lower levels! Defend the gate! Double up men!" she heard around her, though she could not tell from which direction.

Finally she stumbled out of the alley and into the dying sunlight of the day. It shone sadly on the white stone, turning it in an awful yellowish color. On another day, Mÿne would have taken a moment to watch it but now was not the time. She hurried along the parapets, the walls, calling every soldier she could find in the trebuchet's area.

"Aim for that thing! It must not reach the gate! Stop it! Destroy it!" she called as she ran up and down, soon soldiers crying the same.

Her feet landed on the parapet, next to a catapult and she watched as one by one, the stones were directed at the construction. She observed, and watched, as the stones missed it, sometimes just by a close distance, before Grond became too close to hit it without collateral damage. Pieces of the walls tumbled down as rocks hit it, sometimes taking soldiers on the lower parapets with them. But Grond was too fast, within moments it had reached the gate and the catapults of Minas Tirith could not reach it anymore, not without making it only easier for the orcs.

Mÿne was at a loss of words as she observed. Soon the last light of the sun vanished, leaving them in a cold dusk. Fires were made around her, trying to light their battle in the dark. In the distance she could hear the pounding, of steel against the gate. On the lower levels, one of the catapults was taken out by the Nazgûl, destroying it and flinging its wielders to the Fields of Pelennor. In mere hours their forces had suffered great casualties.

In the distance she saw small points of light, in the army of Mordor, and with shock she watched as the lights became larger, before she realized it were flamed rocks. The barrage of rock attacks Mordor had started this battle with continued, only now drenched in oil and set aflame. It collided with the houses on the upper level, sending yet another building to the ground.

"Take out those catapults! We cannot stop Grond but we can hope to smash their catapults!" she called, as she helped some of the men load a particular heavy rock onto the catapult.

Behind her pieces of flaming wood fell down onto the ground. Screams and pounding sounded in her ears, with a lost Nazgûl scream that made her want to claw her ears out. But she could not. She would not.

Rock after rock disappeared into the mass army of Mordor, away from their sight. Rarely had they hit a catapult, the dark making it too difficult to aim well.

"The gate has been breached! Fall back! There are trolls!" a soldier yelled as he ran his way up to the third level.

And indeed, not too long Gandalf's voice echoed through the city and told them the same.

The Gate had been breached, they were lost.